Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame E.C. Farrell (100 best novels of all time TXT) 📖

parts for us as we speed through it. At this time of day, only a few other cars crowd the highway. All of them operate as if the speed limit is a trifling suggestion made by an overly concerned governess. Or whatever they have in this realm. Some weave in and out of traffic like they have an open wound and need to get to the ER, while others plod in the far left lane.

“You have fun with that ticket, buddy,” I say between my teeth as a Miata swoops around me, nearly dinging the front end of my Toyota. “Must be nice to have all that excess cash that you don’t mind paying the fine.”

Max laughs. “Road rage is real.”

“These jokers.” I shake my head. “If I could drive as fast as I wanted without consequences, believe me, I would. But I’m not giving my hard-earned money up for that luxury.”

“How about some music? It might give you a little Zen.”

Without taking my eyes off the asphalt, I shove the phone into his hands. “Find us some good driving tunes. And don’t text anybody for help.”

The spell around my wrist warms with the command as magic flows out from it. My guts writhe like Medusa’s snakes. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this. I never have before. It’s not personal, it’s a job. But that doesn’t stop my innards from twisting and tangling. Pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I repeat Yaritza’s imperative in my head as Max fiddles with my cell.

Preserve the contract, preserve the contract, preserve the contract ... even if his mom is the guilty party.

“What’s your poison?” Max asks.

“I’ll defer to you on this one. Since we’re going for Zen. My taste in music doesn’t really encourage chill so much as helps me vent fury. The fae realm doesn’t have anything quite like it.”

Laughing, Max nods, taps the screen with his thumb and pairs it to the car, then turns the volume knob. Stringed instruments float from the speakers. It swells as Max plugs the cell into the car charger and sets it in one of the cup holders. He then lets his head drop back against the seat and shuts his eyes. That road rage-induced tension gripping my chest uncurls slowly.

I nudge Max with an elbow. “Not bad, water spirit. I’m not usually into this kind of music, but it works for me.”

“Lindsey Stirling wails like a rocker. Her music videos are epic too.” Max waves his hand in time with the dips and curves of the instrumentation.

Like most of his movements, it’s mesmerizing.

“I’d kill to be as good as she is,” he says.

“You play the violin?”

“Since I was four. I had sporadic lessons, but mostly had to teach myself because of how much we moved.” Max runs a thumb over the tips of his fingers and for the first time I notice the callouses there.

Something about the motion sends goosebumps across my skin. For such a mundane gesture, it’s still oddly graceful, and I find myself curious to see him play. I force my focus back onto the road, letting the music distract me away from the conundrum otherwise known as Max.

With every mile, however, the question continues to echo through my brain: What if Max is telling the truth about his mom? What if that isn’t a manipulation, and he really is like me, about to suffer for the crimes of his parents? What if the secrets behind that asterisk prove all of this to be true?

As awful as breaking the contract and getting kicked out of the guild would be, condemning Max to that fate feels worse. Way too close to my own story. This is why it’s straight up stupid to ask marks why there’s a bounty on their heads. I’ve been reckless. It only makes sense that it’s catching up with me.

Readjusting my grip on the wheel, I focus all my attention on the road and try not to think, try to get lost in the music. It only continues to stir the ridiculous desire in me to see him play. With his water spirit grace, it must be breathtaking, far more beautiful even than nymphs in springtime.

A few hours pass before we both need a bathroom break.

When I pull into a rest stop, I wave Max on. “I need a minute. Don’t talk to anybody. Wouldn’t want you accidentally creating fan girls.”

The lame joke doesn’t help ease the persistent guilt grating on my every nerve. Max laughs, probably out of the kindness of his heart, then jogs to the men’s room. I grip my phone, drumming my thumbs on the black screen and dragging my lower lip between my teeth. Hitting the Home button, I unlock it, then pull up Hank’s number.

He could find out what I need to know.

But do I want to know? Right now, I have plausible deniability. Right now, I can claim — quite reasonably — that I don’t trust Max and his manipulative magic. If I find out he’s telling the truth, I know I won’t be able to fulfill the contract. Guilt won’t let me. My own experience with this blasted curse won’t let me.

Kneading my forehead with a knuckle, I mumble nonsense to myself. This is why I shouldn’t have tried to look into his file. This is why it’s stupid to let the mark talk, why Yaritza makes them shut it with the magic of the cuff. I’ve always said it’s not my business to know why they have a bounty on their heads. I’m not judge and jury. That’s not my job.

I can’t ignore it now though.

Grunting, I tap Hank’s number, pressing it to my ear. As the tone trills, I watch a man wearing an LSU trucker hat corral a group of three little girls. Stickers and face paint cover their arms and cheeks and smiles show off missing teeth on the younger two, braces on the oldest.

Even inside the rental car with the windows up